Archive of Our Own

‟Tam? Why is there a flyer for Nikodemus’ Rotating Dinner on my desk?”

‟Because you’re going.”

‟To a cat café?” Tim picked up the flyer with equal parts intrigue and puzzlement and walked back out the way he’d come. Why rotating? he wondered, but got distracted by the picture of a sleek gray siamese cat staring challengingly at him from the lower right corner.

Tam was looking at him from her desk with a similarly intense look, clearly serious about this but not giving any hints as to why. ‟Are you allergic?”

‟No?”

‟Then you’re going.”

He studied the flyer again. The address wasn’t that far, he might even make it there in time on foot if he…

‟And you’re going home first and changing into something more comfortable.”

Made sense, Tim supposed. Business chic wasn’t the nicest thing for a cat to cuddle into, nor did he really want to get cat hair on his high-end suit. Why a cat café, though? The cats looked cute enough, he supposed; that one in the upper right corner was a regular black fluff ball. His fingers itched with the desire to bury into that softness. He wouldn’t mind cuddling that cat, provided that – he checked the name – she deigned to let him approach. He had a vague idea of how cat cafés worked, so he knew there was no guarantee he’d be chosen by one of the cats.

‟But not too comfortable, you do want to make a good impression.”

‟On the cats?” He looked up, startled.

Tam rolled her eyes at him and waved him over. At her pointed finger, he finally noticed what his overworked eyes had missed. He’d been distracted by the fluffy pictures of Stella and Sir Parcival, Tim didn’t think anyone could blame him. But now that he’d seen the words, he couldn’t unsee them.

Our Popular Yearly Blind Date Event!
Come in and find your match while dining in the relaxed company of our soft and happy residents!

‟A blind date, really?” He raised a doubtful eyebrow at Tam.

‟Oh don’t give me that look, Tim. When was the last time you actually did something for fun?”

Before half the Bat family wanted me dead, his mind replied like a shot.

He flinched.

‟That’s what I thought,” Tam said, nodding to herself. ‟You are always in the office before I get here, these days, and haven’t left by the time I go home. Not just once or twice a week, but all days, every day. And I know you sometimes come in during the weekend, too, don’t even try to dissemble, Mister Drake!”

‘Sometimes’ isn’t quite right, Tim thought, but he was wise enough not to admit that out loud.

At least no longer going out as a vigilante meant he could go to bed during the night.

Theoretically.

As though reading his mind, Tam continued, ‟Tim. I know you aren’t used to turning in early. Are you sleeping at all?” Tam’s voice was concerned now rather than scolding.

Of course not. If he slept, he couldn’t be on guard and then they would get him. Besides, it wasn’t like the adrenaline constantly coursing through Tim’s veins let him get any true rest, anyways. Every two or three days, he crashed hard, usually in the office, but he never got more than a few hours of rest before startling himself awake and getting up to check his many, varied insufficient security measures.

The ache in his throat that he sometimes got from lack of sleep had become a permanent fixture, as had the bags beneath his eyes.

Back when Hood’s attack was just barely behind him, Tim had thought he was dealing okay with the shock. It hadn’t been the first time he’d been attacked when he didn’t expect it, nor the first time he got seriously wounded. Once the event was a few months behind him and Tim’s more obvious wounds had healed, he’d been optimistic about his future.

But the emotional scars had remained, and every time he got stressed, or something particularly bad happened on patrol like those hidden, hostile eyes watching him again, the latent feelings of unsafe and small and helpless came rearing back up. His throat got scratchy, his pulse shot up and his digestion went haywire. It could be hard, sometimes, to return to baseline, but Tim always managed after a month or two. Usually with the help of a few nights’ rest in the heavily fortified manor, and some gentle mothering from Alfred.

Well. That was no longer an option.

‟You are running yourself into the ground, Tim. Can’t you see that?”

Oh, he could. Tim knew that his current approach to… life… wasn’t sustainable. He just had no idea how to get out of it. There weren’t many therapists for vigilantes, and ever since his 16^th birthday, Tim knew better than to trust anyone with his secrets.

Resting somewhere safe would have been a nice start. But his lonely apartment qualified even less than the office.

Maybe, if someone took Jason out of the equation...

But no. Tim couldn’t think like that. Bruce had loved Jason, and Tim would not stand in the way of Jason’s eventual reconciliation with the family, if only in honor of Bruce’s memory. So getting the Red Hood locked up or giving the Joker some anonymous pointers on how to bring Hood down was sadly out of the question.

No matter how much the knowledge that Hood was still out there terrified him.

‟Just think about it, okay? I’m convinced a distraction will be good for you.” Tam’s voice was soft now. Tim didn’t know what she had seen on his face – the fear, the heartache, the overwhelming exhaustion – but he was certain it was more than he’d wanted to reveal.

There was an easy way to calm some of her worries, though. He cleared his throat.

‟Fine. I’ll go.”

After all, it wasn’t like the Red Hood would come looking for him at a cat café.

‟Lily? What’s with all the people?” Jason looked around the usually quiet space with narrowed eyes.

The waitress smiled at him. ‟Jamie! Always a pleasure to see you. We’ve got a special event running tonight, so we’re booked solid for dinner. But you’re in luck, I had two cancellations so I can fit you in.”

Jason ground his teeth. He’d had a shitty couple of days and really just wanted to curl up in the corner with Stella and not see anyone. ‟I don’t like people.”

‟Oh, I know sweetie. You’d only have to talk to four of them, though.”

‟Talk?” His head snapped back from his contemplation of the crowded café to Lily’s eyes.

‟Well yes,” she chirped, undaunted by his apparent discomfort. ‟It’s date night! You get to eat your starters, entrée and dessert each with a different partner. If you’ve never done it before, you have to try. It’s so much fun! Oh, excuse me.”

Lily greeted several more guests and checked them off her list while Jason awkwardly dawdled next to the entrance, torn between his aversion to people and his craving for cat-induced oxytocin.

‟Entrée?” Jason asked once Lily was free again. ‟Mike swallow a French dictionary or something?”

‟If he had, he’d be calling the starters ‘entrées’, not the main course,” Lily informed him primly, before breaking and grinning at him. ‟Now hush, you. I know you’ll love whatever Mike came up with for tonight. It won’t be that different from our usual fare, just with fancier names for a fancy occasion.” She winked at him.

‟If you say so.” Jason managed a smile for the kind waitress while inwardly cringing at the memory of ‘fancy occasions’ past. He’d never been a fan of the cream of watercress with sautéed chanterelles and other minuscule portions of assorted bullshit he had to sit through at the few formal dinners Bruce had made him attend before everyone learned better. Give Jason Alfred’s comfort stew or the café’s chicken salad any day over that insubstantial, fancy bullshit. Next they’d be listing hors d’œuvres on the menu and replacing his beloved garlic bread with oysters.

‟So, are you coming inside, hon?”

Jason was on the brink of saying no when Nikodemus himself bumped his head against the window and meowed at him. Jason was past the cat guard and crouched inside the café, petting the black tomcat for all he was worth, before he realized what he’d done.

Looking back through the barrier at a laughing Lily, Jason realized he could put up with vapid dinner conversation over entrées if it meant getting to cuddle the cats today. He really, really needed it.

‟I’ll make sure to rearrange the numbers so you can stay hidden in Stella’s corner all night, okay?”

‟You’re the best, Lily.”

Contrary to expectations, Tim found the rotating dinner experience... not horrible.

Tam had apparently put him down as bi or pan or something when signing him up, because after a fairly enjoyable conversation over salad with a bright-eyed, young trans-lady who’d recently got her official name change and was bouncing with fresh energy all over the place, his next date was a shy, diminutive, pale-faced male IT nerd.

Tim wondered at the hilariously perfect match even as he had a ball discussing the recent data leak at Luthor Corp. He walked away from that conversation with Martin’s number in his cell – not for dating purposes, they agreed they were much too similar for that. Martin thought it was just to stay in touch so they could shit-talk Luthor again the next time the man’s sub-standard security blew up in his face, though he did agree with an easy laugh when Tim suggested he’d give his number to his company’s HR to get Martin a better job. Martin probably thought Tim was full of shit.

Tim enjoyed the fact that most people didn’t recognize his face out of context, especially when it didn’t sit atop a stiff business suit.

Tim had forwarded Martin’s number to Liselle by the time he sat down for the main course. Martin didn’t deserve to go down with the ship when the clues Tim had leaked to the authorities a few weeks ago finally brought Gotham Lands Inc. down for their connections to the mafia.

During a tasty, if quaint course of meatless chicken, linguine and vegetables, Tim was finally visited by one of the cats. Which was lucky, because the elegant lady taking the seat opposite him at Table 17 was so involved in her monologue she barley seemed to notice when Tim was done eating and excused himself to the bathroom for a moment. All told, the short-haired tabby flirting with Tim’s pants leg for a while before letting him coax it into his lap was a welcome distraction.

Also, soft.

Tim snatched up the leaflet describing all the café’s cats while continuing to make little hmms and u-hu noises in roughly the right places to feign attention. ‟Hey there, Sasha,” he said softly to the tabby now purring in his lap. The comfortable warmth made him relax for what was probably the first time in seven weeks.

Maybe he should get a cat?

Tim was glad to get rid of the self-possessed lady when it was time for dessert. Sasha was a lot less happy, though. When Tim dared to stand up and try to carry her off to another table, she made her displeasure heard. Tim sadly watched her stalk off, then resignedly went looking for Table 3.

He was still pondering the sad loss of his warm, soft companion as he spied the correct table next to a fairly private corner booth and sat down. So the first thing he noticed about his final date for tonight was the long-haired Stella happily dozing in the guy’s lap. Unfair, he thought childishly. Why did he have to get up and lose his cat and this guy got to keep that beauty on his lap?

It was a nice lap, though, he noticed next while distractedly sitting down catty-corner to his dessert date. Tim certainly couldn’t begrudge the cat for electing to doze there. Strong legs that firmly filled out those stone-washed jeans, firm abs above said lap and wide shoulders, and…

Tim froze.

No. This couldn’t be happening. NO!

Run, Tim commanded his legs, but they failed him. Get up! he mentally yelled at his arms, push off this seat and get moving! but his arms remained frozen by his sides. His entire body was rigid with shock, incapable of making any move to protect himself.

His eyes were glued to the face of Jason Todd, sitting next to him in the most secluded corner of the café, where he could murder Tim right after dessert and it would probably take the staff until the end of their allotted half hour before they even noticed.

No. God, please, no!

Jason looked up from petting Stella to find the Replacement sitting next to him.

A knife was in his hand the next moment, the blade touching Tim-fucking-Drake’s throat while the Pit unexpectedly roared back to life.

Any other day, Jason would have despaired at feeling the green rage inside him. He’d thought he was past that. He had beaten the rage, he was the master of his own actions, he was strong. How was he falling prey to the rage again now, after more than a year of feeling in control?

Any other day, but not now. Not when the Replacement was stalking him in the one safe space Jason had allowed himself in this whole godforsaken city. The Bats had no place at Nikodemus’s. It was Jason’s. It was his haven, a place for him to unwind and feel safe and comforted. How dare Drake take that away from him?

Jason embraced the rage.

‟You,” he hissed, hearing the murder in his voice and reveling in it. ‟How dare you follow me here?”

The Replacement stubbornly refused to answer. Jason increased the pressure on his knife until a lazy drop of blood welled up from Drake’s skin. ‟Talk,” Jason commanded.

A soft mewl sounded from his lap.

Abruptly, the green receded. The hand not holding the knife returned to Stella’s head and resumed scratching behind her ears. ‟Sorry, love. I haven’t forgotten about you.”

Stella resumed purring. Jason kinda wanted to sink both hands into her fur again, but one of them was occupied. He followed that arm with his eyes to find a pair of wide-open blues staring back at him from among dark rings discoloring a too-pale face. A smudge of makeup in one corner attested to the fact that Drake had tried to cover up his zombie look before coming, but the fidgety man must accidentally have wiped part of it off during the course of the meal. Drake looked terrible.

And terrified.

‟Nothing to say, Replacement?” Jason mused, increasing his scratches to soothe his own rising nerves. ‟Cat got your tongue?”

Even Jason himself didn’t find the joke funny. He remembered the way Drake had fought, back when they first met. The confident tone in his voice when the little shit claimed to be the better Robin. Where was that self-confidence now? Had something spooked him?

Jason risked taking his eyes off his enemy to look around the corner of his hidden little nook, but the scene was unchanged from what it had been all evening. Happy pairs of strangers chatting each other up while they waited for Lily and Ahmad to reach their table with the next course, cats mingling among the guests or looking down on them all from their lofty perches along the walls, the sound of easy conversation and laughter permeating the air.

The unchanged, happy atmosphere spooked him.

‟What?” he hissed at Drake. ‟What are you freaking out about?!”

A shadow falling on the floor outside the booth alerted Jason to Lily’s approach just in time for him to pocket his knife in a fluid motion. When Lily rounded the corner with two servings of tiramisu in her hands, both of Jason’s hands were back in Stella’s fur where they belonged and he managed to give Lily a smile that almost felt real. Stella was just perfect like that.

‟Thanks, Lily,” Jason said, giving Drake an annoyed look when the man didn’t join him. Mike’s tiramisu was a work of art, okay? The Replacement didn’t want to talk to Jason; fine. But that was no excuse for bad manners.

Lily noticed it, too. ‟Sir? Are you alright? You look a bit peeky.”

‟Ngh.”

‟Are you not feeling well? Oh my, is this an allergic reaction? Should we call an ambulance?”

Drake’s eyes were zipping around the café in a frenzy. ‟N-no,” he finally managed a full word. ‟I… I’ll just…” He waved haphazardly toward the exit. Jason could see several ways this could play out, from Drake fainting for whatever stupid reason and causing a scandal, to Drake calling in the cavalry to capture Jason while he was weakest, all the way to there being an actual danger here that Jason was missing and which would pursue Drake into Mike’s lovely place any second now.

That wouldn’t do.

‟Allow me,” Jason said, carefully depositing a sleepy Stella on the seat beside him and standing up. ‟We’ve actually met before,” he told Lily, quickly pulling out enough bills to cover both their meals, ‟and I was looking forward to getting reacquainted. But it’s obvious Timmy here isn’t feeling well. I’ll escort him home. Sorry to skip dessert, Lily. Give Mike my regards, everything was delicious as always.”

‟Oh,” Lily said, looking a bit sad, but also relieved not to have to deal with a fainting customer. ‟Alright, thank you, hon. Make sure he gets some rest, will you?”

‟I will,” Jason promised.

May he rest in peace, a panicked part of Tim’s brain gibbered at him.

Hood was leading him outside with a firm grip on his arm. Tim wanted to struggle, or shout for help, but there were so many civilians here. He couldn’t endanger them. One of his knees buckled and Hood’s grip on his arm firmed. Tim whimpered.

‟Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake,” Hood hissed at him, voice low enough that none of the happy couples around them could make out the words. Then they were outside, down the street, around the corner and into a dark alley where Hood roughly pushed Tim up against the side of a house.

Tim could hear his own harsh panting in his head. In fact, that was all he could hear, even though he clearly saw Hood’s lips moving. Then his vision grew dark.

A panic attack? Was Drake fucking kidding him with this bullshit?

And the guy still hadn’t even told him where the danger was.

Growling in annoyance, Jason picked up the smaller man – much too small, much too light, his brain helpfully supplied – and tossed him over his shoulder. At least he still seemed to have a pulse, Jason noted after placing a finger against Drake’s throat – the carotid artery was on the side Jason hadn’t cut, which was lucky both because Jason now didn’t get blood on his fingers, and also because Lily hadn’t seen the trickle of blood from her position.

Pissed-off at the way his time with Stella had been cut short and vaguely disquieted by the idea of some as-yet undisclosed greater danger, Jason stomped back to his bike at a fast pace, got Drake awkwardly tied to his front with the arms wrapped around his back, and took off.

Tim came to with a sharp cry, adrenaline coursing through his veins.

That was sadly normal. These days, he woke from nightmares more often than not.

What wasn’t normal was the fact that he didn’t bolt upright the moment he opened his eyes. Oh, he tried, but he must have gotten his hands tangled in something during his rest and now he… couldn’t…

His hands were tied to the headboard of a plain, run-of-the-mill bed in a bland, impersonal room. His legs were likewise immobilized.

Hood, his memory supplied. Tim whimpered.

‟Awake already, sleeping beauty?” Jason’s mocking voice came from the doorway. As the man entered, Tim flinched hard. The way he was tied up didn’t allow him to move away from his enemy, though.

‟I thought you’d sleep for at least forty hours, what with those bags under your eyes.” His grin morphed into a frown. ‟You’re not going to freak out on me again, are you? I made sure nobody tailed us on the way here, so whatever got you so distracted earlier…”

Tim couldn’t help the panicked sound that escaped him at that. He was Hood’s prisoner, and nobody knew where to look for him. Not that they would have, anyway; these days, Tim wasn’t close with anyone who’d care. But even so.

Tam will care, flashed though his mind. That was a useless thought. Tam wasn’t a vigilante who could come and rescue him from the number one criminal of the Alley.

He was alone and helpless and Hood was standing over him.

‟Please…”

‟Hm?” Hood leaned down as though to hear him better. He was saying something more, but the words were lost to Tim over the pounding in his ears.

‟Please,” he just said again, then suddenly discovered he had more words to say. ‟Hood. Please don’t hurt me.”

Jason sat down on the edge of the bed with a surprised huff.

Him? Drake was afraid of him?

It had been three years. Robin had been out there almost every night, fighting Two Face, and Ivy, and even – Jason allowed himself a flinch, since Drake had his eyes squeezed shut and wouldn’t notice – even the fucking Joker, and he usually came out on top.

How could he possibly be this afraid of Jason?

Sure, Jason had beaten him up pretty badly when he sought him out in Titans’ Tower. He might even have broken something, maybe? It was hard to tell, the whole night was covered in a bright green blaze that didn’t allow for clear recollection. He did remember that the Replacement had been a true Robin, though, to his past self’s great annoyance. He’d been cocky and brash and a surprisingly strong opponent, despite being on the back-foot from the go. Jason had been reluctantly impressed, he remembered that.

He’d seen the little Robin more afraid than that several times in the interim. Not that Drake ever knew he was there, Jason was sure of that. But he’d been watching.

Over the years, Jason had taken a good look at Gotham’s rapidly growing vigilante population and figured out each one’s strengths and weaknesses. He’d tailed each of them for a while, investigated their civilian identities and checked out their patrol routes. Not all of them were equally active, but they all seemed to mean well. Most of them collaborated to some extent.

Bruce had tried to reach out several times, but that had stopped recently. When Jason encountered Batman, these days, the Bat briskly about-faced and dragged his latest Robin off, avoiding all confrontations. Jason knew he should be glad, but a small, angry part of him keenly felt the abandonment.

The other Bats largely knew to stay out of his way and out of his claimed territory. Jason noted it and mostly returned the courtesy. The one exception being Robin – Drake, that was; before that new kid had taken over. Drake was sure to carry a grudge against Jason for the way he’d attacked him. Jason was done fighting with the Bats, but if Robin came after him, Jason didn’t want to be unprepared, so he always kept at least a casual eye on him.

Robin, for his part, didn’t much seem to care what Jason did, though. It was almost insulting how dismissive the little guy was of the impressive Red Hood persona Jason had built. Robin always strictly kept out of the Alley, he withdrew if his cases intersected with Jason’s and let Jason handle it, and he never seemed even the least bit curious about Jason’s plans. And since the tiny new Robin had taken over, it seemed Drake hadn’t been out at all.

It had to be a scam. Surely, unnoticed by Jason, his little Replacement had been stock-piling information, paying spies in Jason’s ranks and forming a battle plan to bring him down. Surely, he wasn’t just…

...too afraid to ever go up against Jason.

Looking at Tim Drake’s trembling frame, his pale complexion, the eyes clenched shut in desperate denial of the reality of being Jason’s prisoner, Jason found it hard to refute the facts.

He’d broken his Replacement.

A painful thought hit him then. ‟Am I… am I scarier to you than the Joker?”

Drake chose that moment to start hyperventilating.

Jason gulped.

‟Okay, look. I’m going to untie you now. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m… oh fuck you aren’t hearing a word of this, are you?”

Drake was red in the face and his panicked breathing was very loud.

Hoping he wasn’t making a stupid mistake, but not sure how he could possibly be making things worse, Jason leaned over Drake’s slight from to get at the cuffs around the kid’s wrists. Drake might have felt threatened by the proximity were he not too far gone to track his surroundings. As it was, all Jason’s actions did was jostle the prone vigilante to the point where his harsh breaths cut off, but only for a couple of seconds. Then they resumed at an even higher frequency. His hands remained in place as though Jason had never freed them.

Jason was no doctor, but a second black-out within the same hour couldn’t be healthy.

How to bring Drake down from his panic, though? He could only imagine what Drake would do if Jason held a paper bag to his mouth. Not that Jason had any kind of bag here in the first place. This safehouse was new and it had fuck-all in the way of everyday junk.

Jason remembered Stella’s soft mewl bringing him out of his Pit rage. He was getting a little panicked himself by Drake’s dark red complexion and rapid, shallow breathing. Unsure whether this was another stupid mistake but past caring, he pulled out his burner phone and dialed a number from memory. ‟Pascal, you have a cat, right?”

‟Boss?”

‟I need a cat. Is your cat okay with traveling to another apartment?”

‟...Why do you need a cat?”

‟Yes or no, Pascal. I need a reply now.”

‟Uh, yes, sure. He’s pretty chill.”

‟Great. Bring him to this address. NOW, not later.” Jason hung up and texted Pascal the safehouse’s address. He’d have to find a new one to replace it once he and the messed-up vigilante left, but if the cat worked, it’d be worth it.

Jason didn’t want to have the death of a Robin on his hands.

Pascal Caliente, like his cat, considered himself a pretty chill dude. He ran numbers for Red Hood, which was about as low-stress as organized crime ever got.

Rushing his little Mohito into his cat carrier and racing half-way to the Diamond District was not chill. He felt frazzled five minutes in, and that was before Hood opened the door in just a domino, shirt and jeans, and tersely directed Pascal to ‟Wait here!” while snatching the cat carrier out of his hands. A moment later, Pascal was left in a bare kitchen with a pounding heart and no idea what was happening to his cat.

Pascal knew you didn’t say No to Hood if you valued your life. And he’d seen Hood be kind to random alley cats, so he probably wasn’t planning on dismembering Mohito in some satanic ritual. But, couldn’t his boss at least have given him some reassurance?

Pascal jumped when the door suddenly opened again. Past Hood’s broad shoulders, he could see the edge of a bed frame with someone’s leg on it, next to an open shackle, but nothing more.

‟What’s his name?”

‟Uh, Mohito.”

The door closed again. Much more softly, this time, thank god. Mohito didn’t care for loud noises and at this point, neither did Pascal.

For a long while, nothing happened. Then Pascal became aware of the soothing rumble of a low voice monologuing in the other room. Mohito meowed once, the sound reassuring Pascal that his cat was still alive and not in distress. Then all he heard again for the longest time was Hood’s deep voice.

Maybe the person on the bed was just sleeping. Maybe the boss just needed someone to talk to who couldn’t betray his secrets. Pascal often talked to Mohito, it felt much more sensible than talking to himself even though Mohito wasn’t exactly an accomplished conversationalist.

A terrified scream from the bedroom put a brutal end to that theory.

None of my business, Pascal decided and reached for his headphones with an unsteady hand. He prayed Mohito would be okay.

A warmth solidified on Tim’s chest. His frazzled nerves couldn’t make heads nor tails of it, but at least the new sensation lanced through the terror far enough to make Tim aware he was panicking.

Scrambling to anchor himself in the present and not make himself even more helpless, his hands reached for the warm object.

Oh. Soft.

He breathed in deeply, trying not to cough as the breath rasped down his sore throat. The animal on his chest rose beneath his fingers, then lowered again as he exhaled. It gave a questioning mrrrp? Something cool poked at Tim’s cheek.

‟Mh?” One of his fingers left the soft warmth atop his belly to explore. It encountered a small head with pointy ears.

Cat.

Hope surged through him. Had he just dreamed Hood’s presence in the cat café? Maybe his exhaustion had unexpectedly caught up with him and he’d keeled over into his dessert. His hands were free! Maybe he was still –

The surface beneath him was too soft to be part of the café’s furniture. And there was no noise except for a single voice murmuring reassurances to his right. The café should have felt big and cluttered around him, with the sounds of the other guests and concerned members of the staff surrounding him. But this place was small and empty, and there seemed to be only one cat and one… other… person

He tensed.

‟Mew.”

‟Sorry.” Tim unclenched his left hand from the cat’s fur. The right hand he’d luckily taken off the cat’s ears before he could do any damage. He carefully returned it to the cat’s head and scratched lightly underneath its throat.

The low, soothing stream of words finally penetrated the fog surrounding his exhausted mind.

‟...safe. I’m not going to hurt you, nobody else is going to hurt you. There’s a cat, see? Just pet the cat. It’s alright, little bird. You’ll be fine. Nothing here will harm you. Breathe deeply, in and out. Breathe with me. In… out… in…”

Tim followed the voice. Even knowing who it must belong to, at the moment regular breathing was solid advice. When he felt like his brain was actually getting enough oxygen, Tim hesitantly opened his eyes.

The cat on top of his chest was a cute, short haired white thing. Tim had no idea what breed, but its fur was soft like fine-spun silk despite being so short, and its purr deeply soothing.

Behind the cat, sitting on the edge of the bed, was Hood.

Tim screamed.

He couldn’t help it. Logically, he’d known where he was and with whom, but even so the soothing presence of the cat had lulled him into a false sense of security.

That was blown away immediately by the sight of Hood sitting right there.

‟Aw, hey, no, don’t…”

Hood hastily stood up… and retrieved the cat who’d jumped off of Tim in fright when he’d flipped out. ‟It’s alright, Mohito,” Hood’s deep voice purred at the cat. ‟Drake didn’t mean to frighten you. He’s going to be quiet now, see? You can return.”

Don’t make a fucking noise or I’ll kill you, Tim easily translated in his head. He nodded mutely.

Hood put the cat back on Tim’s chest. Despite everything, Tim felt a tiny bit of his stress-tension release at the cat’s soft weight. Hesitant though he was to make a wrong move in front of his captor, Tim’s fingers immediately found their way back to the cat’s soft back. He swallowed several times against the dryness in his throat.

The cat – Mohito? – squirmed around on Tim’s chest and belly, going a few steps this way and that like it was unsure whether it was actually safe to stay. To Tim’s great relief, it eventually settled back down and he got to enjoy its soft comfort a little while longer.

Tim had no idea why Hood was letting him pet a cat, but he knew it might be the last kindness he’d ever receive. Tim was ready to take full advantage of that.

He buried his face in the cat’s fur.

‟Hey. You got something to write?”

Pascal jumped. He hastily pulled out the earbuds and looked at his employer. ‟Boss?”

‟You got a pen and some paper on you?”

‟No, sorry boss.”

‟Go get some.”

Pascal pulled out his phone. It was 10:34 pm. ‟Like, from where?”

Hood glared at him. Pascal had always thought Hood’s mask was kind of intimidating, but really his tangible displeasure in the mask couldn’t hold a candle to Hood’s glare in just a domino.

Pascal was out the door like a shot.

It was quiet when the cat left him.

Tim didn’t dare believe that the room was really empty, but Hood’s voice rumbling false comfort had been absent for a while and Tim didn’t have that terrible feeling of eyes on him that he’d had earlier and sometimes on patrol and sometimes even in the office.

Maybe…?

The cat meowed. Tim instinctively looked up and saw Mohito standing in front of the locked bedroom door. It looked back at him in obvious reproach.

There… wasn’t anyone else in the room.

Tim was in a quandary. That cat had been so kind to him, it deserved to be let out to… get food or do its business or whatever else it intended to do. But if Tim opened the door and let it out, Hood would come back in and kill him. He swallowed dryly.

The cat meowed again.

‟Mohito? Are you alright?” a voice asked from the other side of the door.

Tim flinched. That wasn’t Hood’s voice, but anyone knowing the name of Hood’s cat surely wasn’t safe to be around. Tim scrambled off the bed and, lacking a better place to hide, crouched down behind the bed.

His eyes fell on a crumpled piece of paper in the middle of the bed. He must have rolled over it in his escape. Hesitant, but eager for any scrap of explanation for his current incomprehensible situation, Tim reached for the paper.

That was when the door opened.

Tim hastily snatched back his hand.

‟Mohito? Do you need anything? ...Oh, where did…?” The voice – male, middle-aged, Tim’s analytical brain provided (oh, welcome back) – sounded puzzled. Mohito meowed again. ‟Ah, there. Cool. Look, I don’t know who you are, but Hood sent me across town to the Nite Mart for a pen and paper just for your sake, so you might want to read that. Anyway, Mohito and I are out of here. Hood’s gone, by the way, and since you and I know about this place now I don’t think he’ll be back. Just in case you were hoping for him to return. I’m s’posed to tell you there’s water and a couple of candy bars on the counter for you so you can rehydrate and shit. As I said, I dunno what your deal is and why you guys needed my cat in the bedroom with you, but then I’m probably better off not knowing. So long, it’s been real.”

The man’s steps retreated. There was the rattle of some kind of box or cage snapping closed. Mohito yawned loudly. Then the front door opened and closed.

The apartment was silent.

Was it true?

Was Tim really alone now?

It couldn’t be. Hood had been right there, ready to hurt Tim again, and he’d… put a cat on Tim’s chest and told him he was safe.

Why would he do that?

Nothing for it, Tim supposed. He once again reached for the slightly crumpled sheet of checkered paper with the flowing cursive that looked tidy even in blue ballpoint pen. This time, he actually got to read it.

Dear Tim,

Huh. That was odd. As far back as Tim could remember, Jason had only ever called him ‘Replacement’. And ‘Drake’, earlier today, but never ‘Tim’. Puzzled and distrustful, he read on.

Dear Tim,

Let me start by apologizing. I am sorry that my presence tonight panicked you, and I am deeply sorry for attacking you, back when I’d first returned to Gotham. I wasn’t in my right mind at the time, else I never would have done that.

I don’t hate you, Tim, and I no longer hold a grudge against you for taking my place after I d was gone.

Tim’s eyes jumped to the bottom of the sheet.

Jason

said the signature at the end.

That… couldn’t be right. Hood wouldn’t apologize to him. In the three years since he had attacked Tim and left him for dead, he’d never once given any sign of regretting his actions or no longer hating Tim. And now that he finally had Tim in his clutches, he was just… over it? And signed with his real name while there was one of his goons right next-door?

A thought gripped his heart and squeezed it painfully.

Is this another test?

But no. Bruce was dead. Tim didn’t think, didn’t want to think that Alfred would come up with something this cruel by himself. And Dick had his hands full trying to fill in for Bruce, surely he wouldn’t…

The paranoia Bruce’s cruel game had seared into him surged up from where Tim had been futilely trying to keep it at bay for the past several years. Who else could have done this? Who else knew exactly how afraid Tim still was of Hood?

Stephanie, maybe.

Kon.

Who were both dead. Tim clenched his eyes shut and dug in the heels of his hands to stem the tears that wanted to well up again. Then he froze.

He knew they were dead. He had mourned them. ...But were they really? If Jason had come back from the dead, maybe Tim’s dead best friends had returned, as well? And in doing so, discovered a new desire to torture him?

That’s the paranoia talking.

Tim forcefully pushed down the idea.

Who else was Tim close enough to that they would know about his continued fear of Hood?

…

...

Tam wasn’t wrong when she said he was lacking social contacts.

It was just very hard to socialize when the people closest to you kept hurting you. Tam was… a necessity. Tim knew he couldn’t do everything by himself, he had to delegate. But even there, he only trusted her with business, never with his private life.

Except for how you just let her arrange a blind date for you.

Tim’s heart compressed further. Had Tam set him up?

They’d been a couple for only a brief time. Tim thought they’d managed a very civil breakup and remained fast friends ever since. But maybe that was just him? Maybe Tam had merely been waiting for the right moment to take her revenge.

His eyes fell back to the paper.

Earlier tonight, you seemed convinced that I’m still out for your blood, and your reactions show that you consider me a worse villain than any of the rogues in Gotham. That’s… hard to swallow, actually.

Frankly, I don’t remember most of that night.

Tim sat down hard on the floor. He sucked in a sharp breath, which immediately sent him coughing.

Some time passed until he was able to open his eyes again. His questing hand found his phone, still in his pocket where he’d stashed it after texting Liselle about Martin an age ago. He couldn’t help but feel soothed by its presence. He set a timer for ten minutes and started a deep breathing exercise.

Once the timer ran out, Tim picked Jason’s Hood’s letter back up.

Frankly, I don’t remember most of that night. The Pit rage is like a green haze that swallows rational thought and leaves only fog behind. A lot of memories from those initial months are lost to me.

I remember that I came to find you because I was angry that B had replaced me so easily. I wanted to show him that he was wrong to recruit children to his mission, because then those children get hurt. I remember attacking you to show you how dangerous this life was before he could get you killed. I remember wanting to hurt you so the message sunk in, and I think I managed much better than I’d like to believe. I have disjointed memories of fighting you, and you giving almost as good as you got. I remember you being a cocky, self-confident little shit. You did your title proud.

I remember… breaking your arm, I think? But that can’t be all. Not with your reaction to me tonight.

You don’t have to tell me. Those are obviously painful memories for you. Maybe I’ll see about finding your doctor’s reports from that time. But that’s not something you need to worry about.

I’m rambling. I’m sorry, your panic attacks (plural!) shocked me a little. I hadn’t meant to

Point being, please don’t be afraid of me any longer. I won’t attack you. I’ll stop spying on you. I’ll grant you safe passage through the Alley if you need it. If there’s anything I can do to make this up to you, let me know.

You were a fifteen year old child and I attacked you. That’s not okay.

I’ll see myself out now and not ever come back to this safehouse. Maybe without me there to re-traumatize you again and again, you’ll actually recover from your panic attack. Drink some water, ingest some sugar, get home safe.

I really am sorry.

Jason

Tim sat staring at that letter for a long time.